The Noblewoman's Yacht

[Sil Dorsett]

"Truck Stop":

Late night on Highway 1 between Norvalle and Chateauroche was always interesting despite the low traffic volume. With so many drag racers wanting to show off, tickets for speeding were handed out on major highways like candy on Samhain. The road was barely lit, and sections of trees were cut down specifically so police officers could hide while using their laser guns to catch offenders. Corporal Sadoul was assigned to traffic duty on that stretch of road one night, suffering an so far uneventful night. He knew it was only a matter of time before he caught someone though. Although there were those who traveled Highway 1 knowing the meter markers where the hideouts were, there were always those that either didn't know or didn't care. Sadoul was about to encounter one who didn't care.

A Coweta Stormchaser flew by at 160 km/h, catching the Corporal's attention immediately, and he pulled out of his hiding spot to chase down the speeding vehicle. To his surprise, when he turned on his lights, the car pulled over right away. Sadoul checked the license plate of the vehicle before exiting and approaching. The plate came back clean. He walked up to the driver's side of the Stormchaser, knocking on the window. The driver put down the window.

"License, registration, proof of insurance, please?"

The driver had his documents already prepared, handing them to the officer. But while the officer was collecting the documents, another vehicle was closing in. Traveling well below the minimum speed limit, a passenger poked his head and arms out of the window, brandishing a firearm and taking a shot at the officer. Sadoul was struck in the back of the head, instantly killing him, his now lifeless body slumping to the ground. The other car pulled over, and three other men got out, along with the driver of the speeding car.

"Nice shot," Alexandre, the driver of the speeding car and point-man of the operation. "Julien, you and me are in the police car. Nathan, take the Stormchaser. Emeric, you follow. And, where's that trailer at?"

"Maybe ten kilos back?" Emeric replied. "There's another hiding spot fifteen kilos up the road we can use."

The whole group, the Stormchaser, the police car, and the other car all went up the road with Sadoul's body in the trunk of the police car. Finding another hiding spot down the road, the group hid until the target passed by a quarter-hour later, the stolen police car giving chase and moving the truck onto the shoulder. Julien stepped out, clothed in a police uniform seemingly legitimate to the untrained eye. He approached the cabin of the truck, asking the driver to step out.

"Sir, could you step out of the vehicle please?"

"What's the problem, officer?" the driver asked.

"Cargo inspection and log auditing. Can you present your driving logs, please, and also open the back of the trailer?"

The driver of the trailer did as he was told, handing over the electronic driving logs and opening the back of the trailer. His teammate exited the cabin as well, but not without being noticed.

"Hey, you stay right there," Alexandre instructed the passenger, holding his gun up hoping to freeze the passenger in his tracks.

The driver of the trailer got up into the back with Julien following, being instructed to open the containers. The driver opened them, revealing a cache of automatic rifles and body armor.

"You have documentation for all of this? Where is this going?" asked Julien.

"It's going to Chateauroche, for Northern Exposure PMC. I'll get you to the documents. They're in the cabin."

Julien escorted the driver to the cabin where the shipping document was retrieved and presented. Instructed to return to the back of the trailer, the driver was made to wait as Julien audited the entire manifest to ensure everything was there. Satisfied with the documentation, he simply said, "Alright sir, all checks out," before pulling his gun on the driver and shooting him. Alexandre, having waited for the "checks out" keyword, shot the driver's teammate as well.

The point-man announced their situation to a waiting truck far back. "Truck Stop to Armory. We have the goods. Ready for transfer and extraction."

 

[Sil Dorsett]

"Vault 5":

Bannard Coast... a quiet resort town popular with those in their golden years and the rich who wanted to escape the bustle of the capital. It was as if some sort of aura engulfed the town because the residents just seemed to behave so much that the police presence could afford was minuscule. It proved to be its weakness, as the city also proved to be the perfect place for a hideout.

A truck backed up to the loading dock of a local bank, still a reasonably large building with partitioned vaults to store money and precious goods. The driver's partner gave a waiting guard a piece of paper indicating the destination of the truck's load. "Vault 5" the paper read, and the guard permitted it, directing workers to move crates from the truck to the vault.

There was no "Vault 5", not as far as the bank was concerned.

The goods were loaded into an elevator, dropping down to a second sublevel only accessible by key, where it was taken in by a plethora of people meeting together in the supposed Vault 5, and where they unloaded the boxes into the vault's compartments. The contents... Body Armor, Helmets, Guns... materials stolen in a raid against a rival private military company that same night.

Those in the room worked on securing the materials when one of the bank's wealthy investors dropped by to observe. It was because of his investments that the bank turned a blind eye to the treason that was happening in their lower levels. A militia was forming in its basement, but the bank only cared about the Livres pouring in with no care for their ultimate goal. Pleased by the work that was being done, the investor called everyone together to give a speech.

"Gentlemen... comrades... before too long we will embark on a glorious journey to inject uncertainty into the populace, to make them question the safety and security of this land, to fill them with doubt over the competence of our supposed leaders, and ultimately to free this nation from the rule of one family whose daughters have proven themselves to be unfit to be responsible for our society. We will show the people of this land and the world the truth of this, and we will make them turn away from the defective values they hold dear.

"I know of their incompetence first hand," the investor rambled on, "and I know what will break them. This supposedly peaceful principality where everyone is just too stuck up to rebel against authority cannot withstand chaos. We will show them what chaos is. Gather 'round comrades. Let me explain how we will teach the people of this land the lesson they need to learn."

The investor, revealed as former defense minister Samuel Palmer, presented a diagram of his grand scheme to shake the foundation of the government and the confidence of the security of the nation. It was a move that would in his mind without a doubt cast fear upon the citizens of the capital and destroy their faith in the ruling sisters and their commoner friend. The diagram indicated strikes in two different locations, which Palmer would explain.

"Our ultimate goal is a yacht called the "Princess Liselle", during a planned dinner party on board that I found out about thanks to my confidants still in the government. We will take this yacht with its owner, Baroness Phoebe Covington, the princesses' cousin, still on board, holding her as a hostage. In doing so, we will ruin the confidence in our law enforcement and in our government. Perhaps, some will even see it as a strike against the rich and noble, to prove they are not invincible. Perhaps, the people will see it as a confidence builder, encouraging them to rise up against royal oppression.

"To ensure the ease of this operation, we must make a sacrifice. A team will break into the Norvalle National Bank, intentionally setting off the alarms to draw the Hotel Rats^[1] towards the bank and away from the harbor so that they will be slow to respond to when we take Baroness Covington hostage."

The former minister looked around, eyeing everyone to gauge whether they were following along. "Do we all understand?" Palmer asked.

---

[1] A colloquial name for the High Risk Assault Team (HRAT)

 

[Sil Dorsett]

"Casing Mode":

Julien Bechard, the founder of the rebellion, mostly agreed to the plan, but objected to its reasoning. The total overthrow and removal of the princely family wasn't the goal, only their reduction to figureheads. It was Palmer's investment in the rebellion that morphed it into a criminal enterprise beyond its original scope. None of this was in scope; the vault, the stealing of military hardware, overthrowing the royal family. All of this was Palmer's doing, and the anti-monarchist gang was just a resource.

Julien demanded that the terms for Baroness Covington's release would be a surrender of political power, made by the sister princesses. Palmer didn't push back too much; if it secured the militia's loyalty, there was no reason to object.

* * *​

Some time had passed, and the night of the dinner party arrived. Palmer had ensured there was plenty of advance notice prior to the party and made sure the strikes against the cargo truck and the yacht itself were distant so they would not lead police into believing in a chain of events that could be tracked back.

Three white, plain vans set off to their objectives, one of them with a team of four heading to the bank, while two of them with a team of ten headed to the marina. Julien lead the team heading to the marina, while his friend from the cargo truck raid, Emeric, headed the bank team. Each team was well armed, taking full advantage of the stolen hardware. They were all equipped with body armor, helmets, assault rifles or shotguns, and explosives. No one would be able to tell the difference between them and the private military company that the gear was stolen from.

The yacht team arrived at a parking garage near the marina, parking on the lower floor so they wouldn't have far to travel once the operation went live. They watched carefully at the movements of guards in the area, and though there weren't many of them to begin with, there were already concerns.

"This would have been easier if we hadn't suited up already," one heister commented.

"We can just drive the trucks into the marina. We're not going on foot," Julien replied, adjusting the strategy as they went along. "There's only one guard at the gate, and a couple patrolling the piers. That's not much, and they're not likely to be well armed."

The biggest concern was on the yacht itself. There were plenty of noblemen and noblewomen conversing and sipping drinks, but through his binoculars, Julien could see a major complication, the Princely Guard. Though not as heavily armed as the team, they were harder to pick out from the civilians with only the Dorsettian rose emblem embroidered onto their black suits giving them away. Julien didn't want any nobles killed, but the chance of shooting one by accident became very high. The chance of getting shot by the guards also increased, as it was easier for them to tell who was hostile compared to the heisters trying to tell who was a guard and who wasn't.

"This isn't good, " Julien said worryingly, "I didn't know Phoebe had Princely Guard protection."

"Nobles usually don't. It's only princes, princesses, their children, and the Prime Minister that get it. Something else is wrong." another heister replied.

* * *​

Meanwhile, the bank team pulled up to the Norvalle National Bank. It's name belied its true stature, being a lot smaller than what was expected of a bank that both used the name of the capital and the term "national" in its name. Two stories high it was, wide in berth and housing plenty of offices and cubicles, though it certainly wasn't any skyscraper. The team's truck pulled into a spot clearly labeled "No Parking," invoking the interference of a nearby policeman.

"Hey, you can't park there," the officer said.

The response from the bank team was a shotgun shell of birdshot to the chest, which knocked the officer down, but not kill him since nothing penetrated his armor. The gang surrounded the officer, compelling him to surrender, preserving his life but otherwise removing him from the upcoming battle. They then set up breaching charges on the door of the bank. Running far away, they waited until detonation.

BOOM

 

[Sil Dorsett]

"Star Nine Nine":

Norvalle National Bank was considered a Risk Category 2 bank, suffering two other robberies in the past three years, but none within the past year. The security recommendations for the building did not include a significant guard presence overnight; only a silent alarm system, video surveillance, bait money and dye packs were considered necessary. The heisters didn't realize this, so it was to the bank team's surprise that when they entered the bank off hours, it was empty. It turned out to be another complication, as they expected several guards to be in the building that they could potentially coerce into surrendering to hold as hostage. Instead, they were left with the one officer from outside.

"Dammit!" one of the heisters yelled out. "We got one hostage and no gear to crack that vault. This was stupid!"

"Remember why we're here. We're only here to draw out the rats," Emeric reminded the team. "Rats come here, rats don't show up at the marina. Set up a defensive position in the back of the mezzanine. We hold for as long as we can."

* * *​

The Norvalle Police were inundated with reports from star-nine-nine about the explosion that ripped the doors off the Norvalle National Bank. Eyewitness reports were numerous, and others from nearby who hadn't necessarily seen the blast still heard it and reported it in as suspicious. The Chief of Police, Patrick Blanchet, contemplated his response to the situation, noting in his mind that it had been many, many years since a heist of this sophistication and calibre was attempted. Patrick immediately deployed the High-Risk Assault Team (HRAT) to the scene to back the ordinary officers who responded to the star-nine-nine calls. Upon HRAT's arrival, they observed and reported the armaments of the heisters, noting that they were clad in equipment comparable to a known private military company and that they had a single hostage.

Although Patrick knew the HRAT would still be sufficient to negotiate a surrender from the criminals, or ultimately kill them if needed, there was one option that the principality as a whole had not tested since its inception a year ago. The Ministry of Defence, under Minister Emma Bettencourt's guidance, was developing a team of hardened, strong, and highly athletic operatives provided with the most comprehensive armor coverage and the most sophisticated firearms available. Patrick was given the right to activate this team as the police chief of the capital city, and he decided that this was the time to put Minister Bettencourt's new concept to the test.

"Execute the Maximum Force Response protocol," Patrick ordered.

* * *​

Onboard the Princess Liselle, the Princely Guard was keeping watch over Phoebe Covington and her guests, but also paid close attention to their police scanners, as it was required of them to be aware of all nearby emergency activity to provide the princely family and those under its protection with the best coverage. Phoebe, meanwhile, was mingling with business executives and extended family members of other nobles when the Princely Guard came up to her, cutting off all conversation.

"Ma'am," one of the guards called out, "the local police have implemented the Maximum Force Response protocol. We must leave and take you either home or to a secure location immediately."

"For what reason?" Phoebe questioned.

"A robbery at Norvalle National Bank," the guard informed her.

"A bit of an extreme response for a bank robbery... Besides, that's quite a distance from here. Certainly, it's not a concern to us," Phoebe challenged.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, it's part of the protocol. We have to leave."

The guards hurried Phoebe and her guests off the yacht, with Phoebe being sent into a waiting armored car while the rest of the guests were sent off to wherever they desired, just not back onto the yacht.

* * *​

Julien's team laid in waiting until word came from Emeric's team that the HRAT arrived, eyeballing the party on the yacht. It was a very dull affair to watch as the executives, lords, and ladies moved around to converse with everyone else. What caught Julien's attention though was when the Princely Guard approached Phoebe to force her and her entourage off the yacht and away from the marina.

"Wait... What!?" Julien exclaimed in total confusion. "What the hell is this? Were we found out?"

"Well what now?" one heister asked.

"Call Palmer and see what he wants us to do," Julien replied. The other heister did as he was told and called Palmer, informing him of the botch and asking what to do to fix it. Palmer's solution was simple, given the equipment available.

"He said blow up the boat."

"Are you f... are you kidding me?" Julien screamed, in total shock that the boss would suggest destroying a multi-million Livre boat belonging to a member of both the nobility and the extended princely family. After sighing in disbelief, he gave his order.

"Grab the charges and the camcorder. Let's get this over with."

 

[Sil Dorsett]

"Second Thoughts":

The yacht team stared at Julien. They knew Julien didn't want to follow through, and neither did they. As the mission went off course, there was a lingering feeling that they had been played as pawns in Palmer's master plan, and now they were coming to this realization.

"Screw this. It's not our way," someone in the team called out.

Julien thought about it for a few moments before coming to the same conclusion as his team.

"Yeah. Screw this," Julien said, as he pulled out his phone to dial Star-Nine-Nine.

"Star Nine Nine, what is your emergency?" asked the operator on the other end.

"You need to tell the cops to not kill the people at the bank. They're with me, and we're surrendering. We can tell you who set all this bullshit up," Julien told the operator.

* * *​

Emeric's team, unaware of Julien bailing out of the heist, held their ground, keeping their police hostage pacified and subdued as they made demands for their release. It wasn't long before they were met with minutes of silence, followed by the arrival of the Maximum Force Response Squad. Soldiers in ballistic armor covering top to bottom, with their shields in hand, stormed the bank, firing suppressive shots off and forcing the bank team to focus more on taking cover behind the half-walls of the mezzanine. While shots from the heisters were on target and meant to kill, the MFRS appeared unfazed as shots bounced off their shields or only made it to their body armor. Fearless and without concern, the MFRS spread themselves throughout the spacious first floor of the bank, taking full advantage of the fact that the heisters backed themselves into one vulnerable location.

"We're screwed!" one of the heisters screamed as the MFRS advanced.

The MFRS surrounded and closed in on the heisters as all of them began to realize they were beaten and dropped their weapons. A battle that should have been a bloodbath instead ended with only minor injuries all around as the protective gear of both sides held up long enough for one side to give up, and the expertise of the MFRS showed their ability to capture their targets. Admitting defeat, Emeric's team did not resist as they were all cuffed and lead to waiting police vans destined straight for the city jail.

* * *​

Julien's team was lucky. The phone he called from was not linked to him personally, and was as it was only traceable by GPS, he destroyed it shortly before his team departed the parking garage near the harbor. The two vans split up, hoping not to draw attention, but nobody knew where to go. They all knew they couldn't return to Bannard Coast. Emeric's team would no doubt reveal the location of the hideout.

* * *​

A week later...

"Emeric Pierlot, you are charged with the following crimes; three counts of conspiracy to commit murder in the first degree, conspiracy to commit grand theft auto, two counts impersonating a police officer, two counts grand larceny, one count attempted murder, four counts use of a firearm during the commission of a crime. How do you plead?"

"Your honor," Emeric replied, "I hereby make an 'Appeal to the Mercy of Her Highness.'"

Emeric had effectively pleaded guilty but sought to take his case, and the cases of his collaborators, out of the court system. By making an "Appeal to the Mercy of Her Highness," instead of a judge issuing a sentence, either Princess Claidie or Princess Alice would issue it instead. It was a bold play, but one Emeric was confident in.

Days later, Emeric would find himself in the Government Administration Building, in hand and leg restraints, escorted by several security officers, as he was taken to Princess Alice's office. Claidie didn't care for the case, but Alice was interested, and so she agreed to hear it. Emeric was forced to sit as Alice began her questioning.

"Emeric Pierlot, the charges against you, if their punishments were run consecutively and to their maximum, would mean that you would spend the rest of your life in prison. One hundred and ninety-four years, or ninety-seven before the possibility of parole. You effectively plead guilty, but you ask me to grant you mercy. Why?" Alice asked.

"Your Highness, my team and I were nothing more than pawns. We wanted some political change, but someone else used our fervor to go even further, to implement his plans to tear the country completely apart. I'll tell you who was behind all of this if you'll grant me mercy," Emeric replied.

"Who was it? Talk or you'll find yourself facing the maximum," Alice demanded.

"Samuel Palmer. I can tell you where he and our hideout is."

Alice was stunned. Alice wanted Palmer caught for good, and the criminal in front of her was her best chance to put him away. Emeric's ploy was about to play to perfection, as he knew Palmer was a wanted man, and how lucky of him to be in front of the princess who cared the most about seeing Palmer brought to justice.

"Go on..."

 

[Sil Dorsett]

"Embarassment":

A truck backed up to the loading dock of a local bank in Bannard Coast. The driver's partner gave a waiting guard a piece of paper indicating the destination of the truck's load. "Vault 5" the paper read.

"There is no Vault 5, mister. There's only four." the reviewing guard said to the man riding shotgun in the truck.

"Well, according to our records, there is," the man said, flashing his police badge and pointing his gun at the guard. The guard didn't reach for his own weapon, and instead held his hands high. The driver got out of the truck and ran to the back, removing the lock and raising the door, revealing the twenty armed officers, a mixture of MFRS and HRAT.

"Police! Get down on the ground! Now!" the MFR operatives yelled to everyone at the dock. Security and staffers both, in total shock and awe, fell to the floor.

"Vault five, right now," the officer demanded of the subdued guard.

"I don't have the key to it! The manager has it!"

"Well, we'll just have to fix that, won't we? Where's he at?"

The assault team scoured the building top to bottom, room by room, detaining every employee along the way. No one could be trusted, and everyone was assumed to be complicit. The tellers, the IT department, all the accountants, everyone was cuffed. The general manager was conveniently in his office on the phone as the assault team barged into the office. They wasted no time throwing him to the ground, cuffing him, and demanding the Vault 5 key.

"It's in the safe!" the manager said, referring to a small combination locked safe under his desk. "30-10-22! But, there's nothing in the vault now! The entire account was withdrawn a week ago!"

With the key in hand, the operatives dragged the manager through the building all the way to the loading dock. The manager was forced to accompany the team as they turned the key and descended down to the second sublevel. As the elevator door opened, the police found a large room with five caged-off compartments, each wall within lined with safe deposit boxes. The compartments themselves were supposed to be filled with cash, weapons, ammunition, armor, helmets, everything a militia could need according to the information Emeric provided. Instead, there was nothing.

"HQ, there's nothing here. Vault does exist but there's nothing in it. No tangos, no guns, nothing. Completely empty," one of the officers reported back.

* * *​

In a room back at the government office building in Norvalle, the Minister of Defense, the Chief of the Norvalle Police, and the two princesses looked on, watching a video feed as the operation unfolded. They were anxious to put Sam Palmer away, but then were disappointed when the body-cam video of the empty vault came back. Chief Blanchet slammed the table while Alice, more calmly than could be expected, packed up her laptop. Alice was especially worried given the danger this group of loose criminals posed. Only four were captured, and there was an entire other team and the ringleader still at large, all armed with military-grade equipment.

"Dammit," she muttered. "This is not good. We have a heavily armed militant organization in our borders, run by a former defense minister who knows all our secrets, and we don't know where they are. This is probably the biggest problem we've faced in a long, long time. We are going to have to get some help."

-End Act 1-​

 

[Sil Dorsett]

"Another Shot":

Months later...

"Emeric Pierlot, you have a visitor."

With hands and feet shackled together, Emeric was escorted down the hallways of Chateauroche Penitentary, but not to the visitation area as he thought. Instead, he was taken to an interrogation room where he was bolted down to an unmovable seat. "For safety reasons," was the excuse he was given for the excessive precautions. It didn't make sense to him. If he was being visited, woudn't it be someone he wouldn't want to be a threat to?

A few minutes later, a man on the cusp of being called elderly wearing a navy blue frock coat entered the room. He carried a stern look on his face as he looked at the restrained prisoner.

"He's not going anywhere, correct?" the man asked, with a waiting warden giving confirmation. "Good. Leave us," he commanded. He sat down at the table and opened a briefcase with the files of Emeric's case, glancing through without a word until he was done.

"Emeric Pierlot, forty years incarceration, eligible for parole in twenty. Not exactly merciful, wouldn't you say?" the man asked.

"Could be worse," Emeric replied.

"Yes, it could have been. Anyways, I'm Thomas Whittemore. You may refer to me as Baron Whittemore."

"And what the hell do you want, my lord?" Emeric scoffed arrogantly and sarcastically.

"To give you an opportunity for an earlier release. Instead of rotting away in here for the next twenty to forty years, you could be minding your manners at home for the same amount of time. I talked to Alice, and she's okay with the deal. All we need is one more name. Other than you and Palmer, who lead your little band of misfits?"

Emeric thought about his answer for a while, debating the value of freedom versus the ideals of the revolution his band started. Giving a name was certain doom for the cause, but accepting the political status quo and selling out seemingly guaranteed a second chance at a normal life.

"Julien Bechard"

* * *​

A couple days later...

Julien was at home wasting time playing Löndfuhrer on his Kanasieger when a text alert popped up on his phone. The message was from an unrecognized number and the message itself was even more bizaare. "The Royale Norvalle, 19:00, look for a red handkerchief in a coat pocket. You and I need to talk," the message read. Julien had survived the past months hiding from the cops, lying low and hoping the fact that he didn't carry out the attack on the Princess Liselle meant he was in the clear. The text proved otherwise.

 

[Sil Dorsett]

"Preplanning":

Julien overpredicted the time it would take to travel from home to The Royale and arrived at a nearby parking garage, the same one he staged his original assault, a half-hour early. He was nervous, and fiddled around with his weapon of last resort, a credit card sized single shot pistol^[1] he could hide in his surfshort wallet, for a while before eventually walking down to the restaurant. He was certainly dressed for the occasion, just in case things weren't as dire as he thought but yet also trying to blend in and not raise suspicion.

Finding a clean-cut man standing near the entrance with the expected red handkerchief, folded perfectly in his coat pocket, he approached cautiously, with his phone out and opened to his messages app.

"Hey, you send this?" Julien asked.

"Excuse me a sec," the other man asked as he patted Julien down. "My lord wouldn't be too happy if you came here armed." The man tapped Julien's wallet once but didn't pay any further attention to it, missing the concealed weapon. Satisfied, he invited Julien into the restaurant. "This way, sir. I hope you're hungry. My lord is known to enjoy a good meal with friends."

Julien was lead to the chef's table where a bountiful feast and a very important person awaited. He didn't recognize the man, though, not being entirely attuned to the identities of prominent politicians. He sat down, even more nervous than before, expecting a set-up as the red handkerchiefed man stepped back to watch as the other man introduced himself.

"Mister Bechard, I assure you that you have nothing to worry about," the VIP stated. "You can call me Tom. Please, enjoy the meal." The two dined on an array of expensive dishes for a while, but eventually, the meeting had to get down to business, and so "Tom" went straight to his point.

"If you ever talk to that Emeric person again, tell him I apologize for pulling his strings. I needed your name and what I said was the only way to do it. I assure you that no one but I know about you and your team. Anyways, I have need of your services. You still have the equipment from Northern Exposure? There's really no need to hide it. The government already put all the pieces together." Julien remained silent, not wanting to give away the fact that he was still in possession of stolen hardware. "No worries if you don't want to tell me. Though, maybe you should plan to do something with it. Found your own PMC. I hear they're all the rage if you're looking to make some decent cash. But, I have an idea of my own."

Julien paused for a moment. "Go on..."

"You see, I'm owed quite a bit of money from some rather prominent people, and I'm an impatient man," Tom explained.

"I ain't no debt collector."

"But it's such good business, Julien. Collectors buy debt on the cheap from impatient people like myself and collect it to make a profit by any means necessary. The trade can make you a wealthy man."

I ain't no debt collector," Julien repeated himself more sternly.

"But I bet you're a prideful young rebel, aren't you?" Tom predicted. "Upset that what could have been one of the greatest heists in Sil Dorsettian history fell through? See, the Dorsetts, and by extension the Covingtons, whose yacht you were about to hit, owe me that money. I want that money now. Thankfully, your failed attempt provided an opportunity. Marina security was bumped up and now the Covingtons are keeping a large cache of bearer bonds on the yacht itself, which was watched over by the Princely Guard until that naive young lady Phoebe got tired of guardsmen gawking at her as she was getting a tan and sent them off."

"And how do you know this?" Julien prodded.

"Because Phoebe has a habit of being incapable of keeping her mouth shut. Anyways, I'm not waiting thirty years for the princely family to finish sending me checks every month because the new matriarch cares so much about 'true love' over pedigree. Acquire the bearer bonds and you can have a cut of them. If we have a deal, I'll work on getting you onto the yacht quietly and you can take it from there."

"What's your plan?"

"A yacht as large as Phoebe's will have stewards and stewardesses caring for each deck, cooking meals, preparing tables and decorations... you get the idea. The company that employs those people is one of my holdings," Tom explained.

"So why not have your employees do the job? Why do you need me?"

"Because if I brought this up to any of them they'd see me stripped of my estate and title. I don't need an upstanding and loyal citizen. I need someone who sees the law as a suggestion to discard while taking risks for a good reward. I assure you, you will be rewarded. With money.

"Lots of money . . ."

---

[1] RL: LifeCard .22LR - Ironic that a pistol would be called a "Life" card.

 

[Sil Dorsett]

"Wine":

A few nights passed before Phoebe Covington held another one of her get-together with her friends on the Princess Liselle. With only a dozen or so in attendance, there wasn't much need for a full complement of servants to care for them all. Julien and three of his crew would be more than enough, and the fact that four of them were sent to handle a job that one could handle left most of the team able to move around the ship freely.

Alexandre, from the original crew that seized the weapons shipment, looked around the ship, taking note of security cameras on board. Coming to a keycarded room, he noticed a camera looking right at the door. Presuming he had found the security room, but that it was watched, he knew knocking the cameras out was not an option without certain equipment they didn't have.

"All CCTVs operational. 10-93," Alexandre said into his radio, "10-93" the code for a blockade and indicating that to the group that the cameras would continue to be a problem.

Julien picked up on the message at the right time, not being within audio range of any of the guests or security guards. All he could do was play his part, occasionally serving hors d'oeuvres from the kitchen and retrieving bottles of wine from the ship's cellar whenever Phoebe beckoned.

"Waiter," Phoebe called out to Julien. "Another bottle of wine, please. A Chateau Astier Cabernet... 1987. I hear that was a good year..."

* * *​

Though the cellar wasn't very large, considering it was on a yacht, it still held several dozens of bottles, if not at least a hundred. Julien already had some familiarity with the layout given he had retrieved so many bottles already. White wines and red wines were clearly demarcated and varietals within grouped together. Finding the Cabernets wasn't tough, and neither was finding the specific bottle the Baroness had requested; it just took a little bit of time.

As Julien found the bottle and pulled it from the shelf, he was mystified by the fact that the bottle, although corked and sealed, was empty. Not only that, but he could see a flickering light down the hexagonal shelf on which the bottle sat, and a keypad at the back.

"What the hell?" Julien thought to himself. "No way. Is this where the bonds are?"

"Red 30, Green 10, Blue 22," he heard a voice call out, prompting a quick look over his shoulder to find the Baroness standing on the stairs.

"Put that code into the keypad and the safe in the center of the room, under the drop floor, will unlock. You'll find the bonds to be delivered to Baron Whittemore," Phoebe explained. "Put them in this bag with this anchor and throw them overboard at the bow of the ship. I'll have someone retrieve them in a couple of days."

She handed Julien a waterproof bag and an anchor from her purse and instructed him to enter the code and retrieve the bonds.

"Why are you having me do this?" Julien asked. "You're making me steal from you?"

"No, you're 'stealing' from my mother," Phoebe said, correcting him. "You don't need to know any more than that."

"And the cameras? You don't think they won't see all of this?" Julien pointed out, also pointing at a camera in the cellar.

"That one's disabled," Phoebe assured him. "I made sure of that. I need this to look like you stole the bonds. The cameras will catch you throwing the bonds overboard, but that's all, and I assure you that you'll only earn the wrath of my mother, not that it'll matter to you. So, get to work..."

Julien did as instructed, retrieving the bonds hidden in the cellar's secret safe and running them to the bow of the ship, where security had vacated, and tossed the loot overboard. He looked behind his shoulders towards the hull and the fairings that housed a pair of cameras pointing forward right at him.

"I'm so done with this crap. If I don't end up in prison, I'm going honest."

* * *​

With the job done, and even more confused than ever, Julien and his friends carried on with their arranged job for the night, and with Julien returning to serving the Baroness her wines.

"Waiter," Phoebe called out to Julien. "Another bottle. A 2016 Landerau Wineries Riesling, please."

 

[Sil Dorsett]

"If Only":

Much time passed since the second attempt on the Princess Liselle. Though Marianne Covington eventually realized the losses she sustained, there was nothing she could do. Her bonds were lost, the perpetrators walked free. Plans well beyond her knowledge were in motion.

* * *​

Outside the city of Landereau, among the rolling hills of Peyfaures, a mansion stood surrounded by courtyards and metal fencing. Looking at it from the outside, it was in a state of disrepair. Pastel yellow paint had been chipping away for a hundred years, and the courtyards were overgrown. It was for all intents and purposes abandoned.

The Whittemore family that once inhabited the estate and administered the region for the Princes and Princesses were driven out in a rebellion. Prince Aubin, unwilling to turn the military on his own people, declined to intervene. The estate was seized by a rebellious district administration that would refuse to give or sell it back...

...until now.

It was late at night. It was the only time that Baron Thomas could get his transaction partner to agree to. Unsettled by the darkness, he was nervous, stressed, and breathing heavily. He was fearing the worst, fearing the whole thing was a set-up, but he had already come this far. Years of work, years of plotting, years of subservience finally came down to this moment to reclaim his family's estate. He walked up to the door and knocked lightly, expecting that someone would answer, and they did.

Thomas stared at the other man stoicly, without emotion. "Sam..." was all he said.

Probably the most wanted man in the country, Samuel Palmer, had answered the door. "Tom, do you have the money?" he asked.

"It's all here," Thomas replied. He was carrying a briefcase, and he pulled it up and laid it flat, opening it to show the bearer bonds taken from the Princess Liselle.

"Come in."

The pair walked through the foyer towards one of the dining halls. Thomas looked around, noticing all of the artwork, architecture, furniture, and so much more from the 1890s, 1900ss, and 1910s, all undisturbed. It was a far cry from the neglect seen outside. Other than dust and cobwebs, everything seemed to be in order.

In the dining room itself, a lanky man in a black turtleneck stood at the front of the dining table, with a briefcase of his own. A few others stood along the edges of the room.

"Mister Whittemore," the man called out as Thomas and Samuel entered the room.

"Mister Northway," Thomas reciprocally replied as he opened his briefcase again, displaying the loot. "I have the money. One hundred and sixty-five million Livre. Hope you don't mind that they're in bearer bonds."

Clement Northway was the district administrator of Landereau, which for the longest time didn't implement principality law or authority. While the district still acknowledged the princely family, they didn't necessarily obey its decrees and instead enforced its own laws. For years a stalemate existed between the Dorsetts and the District of Landereau. Clement was a relatively young idealist that sought to ratchet up the tension and further the opposition to the monarchy, and for nearly a decade he had been designing the greatest heist to steal all the power away from the crown.

Clement flipped through all of the bearer bonds, ensuring they were all authentic and that there were not too many. "Bearer bonds are easier to process without raising suspicion, Tom. It's better than thousands of thousand-Livre bills. You did good. You did exactly as I asked."

"So then the estate is mine again?" Thomas asked.

"Not yet. I have one more demand," Clement replied, to the chagrin of Thomas. Clement opened his briefcase and pulled out a piece of paper; a document Thomas would not like. "I need you, Tom, to forfeit your barony."

"What the f..." Thomas screamed. "Sam and I have done everything you've asked for more than a decade! I gave up my own money and put my own son on the line to get Claidie to hate her father, to hate the monarchy she was the heiress to. Sam put her on the throne while she still hated the prospect so that she'd do away with the monarchy when she could. All of the pieces are there now and you still ask me to give up my family's titles?"

"Tom, you would have lost your barony anyways once the monarchy collapsed. I told you I would have given you and your kids the first seats in the new government. You would have kept everything you have now. Here's the problem, Tom... The plan was ruined. I can't expect Claidie to disband the monarchy anymore. So, that's why I need you to sign this. Tom, you've trusted me for years. Trust me again."

Thomas paced around the room, distraught and confused. For many years he had worked to see his family estate returned, and out of nowhere now the price to make it happen would make the entire endeavor pointless. He would regain a home, but lose his power.

"Tom," Clement called out, trying to speak sense into Thomas, "Short-term loss, Long-term gain. It's basic business. You know that better than anyone. Come on."

Thomas paused for a moment, thinking hard, and concluded that perhaps Clement was right. "Deal," he said, and he pulled out a pen and signed the document to disclaim his barony.

"The estate is yours," Clement declared. "Here's the thing, Tom... I didn't want to have to make you do that. You know who I really wanted to sign that kind of document?"

Thomas looked at Clement, perplexed. "What? Who?"

"Phoebe. If I had gotten Phoebe to disclaim her barony then the plan would have had a better chance at working. Think about it, Tom. Claidie hates you. She hates the concept of the monarchy and she hates the nobility because of what I had you do," Clement stressed. "If Phoebe, Claidie's own cousin, would have disclaimed, she'd have no reason to keep the nobility around and would have seen no reason to keep the monarchy around. She was only sticking around because of her cousin. You knew that, right?"

Thomas still couldn't process it all. Was it all conjecture? Prediction? Did Clement know more than Thomas did when it came to the inner circle of the Dorsett dynasty? How?

"But wait... what about Alice?" he wondered.

"Oh, Claidie would have forced Alice out with her. Or they'd be in perpetual rivalry and we'd still have some semblance of a democracy to split them. Maybe it's perhaps part of the reason the plan no longer works. Of course, I don't know anymore because the one thing I needed to happen didn't happen, because I don't have Phoebe's signature on a disclaim document because a certain yacht wasn't seized... Sam..."

Palmer was shaken up. Now his failure was at the forefront of the discussion. "Clement, come on, I tried. It's those stupid kids that screwed everything up. My strategy was flawless!"

"And yet here we are not celebrating our victory." Clement pointed to his henchmen off to the sides, and then pointed to Palmer.

Palmer soon felt the jolt of fifty-thousand volts in his back, felling him and leaving him unable to resist what would come next. The other men cuffed Palmer's hands and feet behind him, restraining him and making it impossible to retaliate as another ensured his eventual asphyxiation. Thomas watched in horror as the reality of Northway's cruelty was in full display.

"Now, Tom," Clement said, "remember this. You're a co-conspirator to two murders now. If you confess, you lose everything. If you betray me, I make sure you lose everything. So, enjoy your estate, and enjoy your vote in the Chamber of Law," he said, wagging the disclaim document at Thomas.

Clement and his men walked out the of the mansion, dragging the body of Samuel Palmer along with them all the way to a waiting car in the courtyard where Palmer would be stuffed into the trunk.

"Dump him in the Randrau," Clement ordered his men, and they drove off into the wilderness under the cover of the shadows.

Clement drove off another way, thinking about how to resolve a decade's worth of lost work.

* * *​

Weeks passed since Thomas Whittemore reclaimed his estate, and on the other side of the country, Princess Alice's mail was delivered to her. In the gaggle of letters, an interesting notification was among it all, a notice from the Norvalle National Bank. "As requested, bonds with the following serial numbers have been redeemed..." it read.

"You're done."

~fin~​